


31 days of October Fanfic Challenge

by givemeunicorns



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Brain Damage, Drinking, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, Love Bites, M/M, Multi, Past Torture, Period-Typical Homophobia, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Tumblr Memes, werewolves au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:47:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givemeunicorns/pseuds/givemeunicorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MCU prompt fills for the 31 days of October writing challenge on my tumblr, givemeunicorns.tumblr.com. Each prompt is it's own chapter. Chapters will be added as prompts are completed!</p><p>1. Werewolf AU-Sam/Steve/Bucky<br/>2. Physical Ailments- Natasha/Clint<br/>3. Arguing- pre serum Steve/Bucky<br/>4. Forbidden relationship- pre serum Steve/Bucky<br/>5. Abandoned locations -Sam/ Bucky<br/>6. Rough Sex- Sam/Steve (no serum/artist au)<br/>7. Betrayal- Mack & Fitz<br/>8.Restraints during sex- Sam/Bucky<br/>9. B movie monsters- no pairing</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Werewolf AU-Sam/Steve/Bucky

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:Vampire/werewolf AU (those this is actually witch/werewolf AU because I do what I want) Sam/Steve/Bucky established relationship magical boyfriend fluff. That's all this one is
> 
> disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I make no money from my fics.

Sam Wilson was pretty used to weird shit. Growing up in family of witches would do that. He was used to magic, to incantations, even though healing was his gift, it was more manpower than magic.

But dating werewolves lead to a lot of unexpected weirdness.

To be fair, he was still getting used to the fact that werewolves were a thing. He would have figured that someone in the family would have thought to mention that. Steve had eased him into it though, dropping hints for Sam to find. He'd smelled magic on Sam's skin the moment they met. Sam should have known something was up, no normal man had that kind of stamina, or shoulder to waist ratio.

Bucky had complicated things, shown up on their doorstep, dripping wet and damaged to the core. His control was slipping, he said, he was a danger to himself and others. Sam was inclined to agree, but there was something about Bucky that made Sam pity him. He blamed it on his empathy, but there was more too it than that, he simply hadn't been able to put his finger on it at the time. Maybe it had been pheromones, or some strange feed back over the connection he had with Steve. Either way Sam had opened the door, and offered his spare bedroom with out more than passing hesitation. He'd thought it would be awkward, living with his boyfriend and the boyfriend his boyfriend never really go over.

Turned out polyamory wasn't so unusual in werewolves.

Sam leaned back on the porch swing, looking up at the moon. It was bright and full tonight, with the yellow twinge of fall. An horned owl called in the woods, an old friend, letting him know the wolves were returning. Most witches took cats as familiars but Sam had always been partial to birds.

Two figures broke out of the woods line. From this distance, the untrained eye might have mistook them for bears, hulking black shapes that lolloped out of the trees, one honey gold and the other sable dark. Sam wasn't sure what he'd thought a werewolf would look like, but now that he'd seen them, he knew they could never be mistaken for anything else. The were massive creature, with the heads and feet and furred bodies of wolves, with their long tails and their barrel chests. But they had thick thighs, made for standing up right, for running as quickly on two feet as they could four. Their hands and arms resembled that of a human, made for lifting , pushing, tearing. Their claws were thick and sharp, like a grizzly. But Sam, stupid as he knew it was, couldn't be afraid of the one currently bounding their way towards his front porch.

The gold wolf's transformation was smooth as flowing water, one minute he was a beast and the in the next breath he was a man, all big smiles and bare skin. Sam grinned. Putting clothes on Steve's body right now seemed like a crime.

Steve came up the stairs, kissed Sam's forehead. Sam was grateful for the gesture. Steve's mouth probably still tasted like dead what-ever-they had killed. Sam had made that mistake once, kissing Steve's mouth after he'd come back from the hunt, turned on by the novelty of hot naked werewolf boyfriend. He tasted raw rabbit on his tongue for the rest of the night.

Bucky slunk up the stairs, still a wold, staring at Sam with his charcoal eyes, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. He wouldn't change back tonight. As smooth as the transition was for Steve, it was the opposite for Bucky, all twisting limbs and cracking bones. Steve had been made a wolf by magic, Bucky had been ravaged, the wolf forced on him against his will. It showed in the change. He did well as a wolf though, without words. He curled up at Sam's side, head on the witch's thigh.

“Good night?” Sam asked.

“Good as any.”

 


	2. Physical Ailments-Natasha/Clint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Physical ailments (knife/bullet wounds; illness/fever.) Clint/Natasha. Natasha's claws her way out of the desert after her run in with the Winter Soldier. Clint's there to give her shelter in the fall out.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I make no money from this.

Natasha Romanoff was a survivor. She knew it, her enemies knew it. Clint Barton knew it, the moment he'd laid eyes on her in Saint Petersburg. She would always tell the story that he was sent to kill her and had made a different call. He would tell that he had been sent to kill her, but knew he would probably die trying, which seemed like a real waste.

But the moment a soviet slug ripped through he belly in the middle of the desert, killed the man cowering behind her, the man she was supposed to protect, she wasn't so sure she would survive this time. She didn't see the man who put a bullet through her, who pushed he car off into a ravine. She saw only the ominous dark figure in the dust, a muzzle over his mouth and the glint of sunlight off metal.

The bullet tore into her and then back out in seconds. She might have screamed, but the bullet was out and gone by the time her brain could realize it was blood pouring down her leg. The man, the Winter Soldier her charge had raved about, had killed him. Now he would kill her. She thought about that, as her knees gave out under her, gravity pulling her down into the dry dirt and scrub grass. She didn't want to die like this, on the ground, like an animal. But she couldn't find the strength to lift herself. Her bones were cracked from the rolling car, marred from the broken glass, now shot too. She waited for the man with the gun to come put a slug between her eyes and silence her, as he had done to her charge. But no one came. The desert wind blew little dust devils all around her. There was no sound by the wind, and the scuffling of tiny feet as a lizard slid past her. But no sound of boots on the brush, no man with a gun come to finish the job. No cars on the road above. Nothing. She would bleed out in the dirt and no one would miss her.

A snarl, animal and desperate, ripped it's way out of her throat. There was blood in her teeth and she pushed her self first to raise to her hands, her knees, crawling towards the wreckage of the car. Blood hit the soil with an almost audible drip. She was the Black Widow, she had no extraction plan. She could rely only on her own connections, her own will now. SHEILD would not come for her.

She dragged a duffle bag out of the ruined backseat, found a knife and an shirt and began to cut. She screamed when she bound the wound, an almost cathartic act, with no one but the buzzard's around to hear her. She never screamed in front of doctors, in front of comrades. Men could scream in pain or rage and be understood, but a woman's scream meant weakness. She found a hat in her charge's bag, a light jacket, and shrugged them on. She ripped opened the lining of her leather jacket, stuffing the money and a disposable cell phone into the pockets of her stolen windbreaker. There was a town a half three miles back, little more than a restaurant, a roach motel, and a gas station. But it could provide her shelter and a place to stitch herself up.

She leaned against the ruined metal, closed her eyes and breathed. The man she'd been sent to protect watched her with wide eyes, caught in the panicked moment of death. The man who'd shot her could be waiting up there, waiting to finish the job, or have left one of his men to do. Better do die clean than to bleed out here like a wounded animal.

It was a long climb, up a steep slope fighting with thick, thorny desert plants. She shivered, pushed on leg in front of the other, trying not to think about the warm, bloody wrapping on her other wise cold skin. Three miles was ordinarily a jaunt, for a body that was beyond human, but it became an ocean for a wounded body. She fell once, twice, three times. The last time she didn't get up for while, just laid in the dirt. She may have blacked out, she wasn't sure, she just knew that at some point she decided this mission would not be a complete failure. She wasn't going to die with out knowing what she had had to die for.

The middle aged woman at the convenience store looked at her oddly when she set a bottle of cheap vodka, some chips, a sewing kit, gauze and an ace bandage on the counter. She knew her eyes looked bruised and hollow, that she was pale as death and there was blood in her teeth if she smiled. He couldn't see the dark stain on her jeans or the way she swayed.

“You okay honey?” she asked.

“Bad break up,” Natasha replied said.

The woman nodded, sympathetically.

“Ah been there. Who is she?”

“My best friend. Since were kids,” Natasha croaked, holding up a hand, showing the woman he knuckles, shredded by the broken windshield when they'd tumbled, “They don't know I know. Or they didn't. I busted out his tail lights and threw his stuff in the trash. Smell of burning Armani might have tipped them off. ”

The woman smiled approvingly.

“Atta girl,” she said, handing Natasha the bag without even checking her ID.

The no tell motel next door rent by the hour as well as by the week. The greasy man behind the window didn't even look up from his Pent House when she pushed her money through slot. She took her key, nearly having to drag herself to the room.

She leaned against the door and slid to the ground, exhausted aching to the bone. The hole in her side hurt like hellfire, stealing her breath now that shelter had been achieved. She grabbed the bag and crawled across the gritty carpet to the bathroom, unable to get to her feet. The light flickered on, blinking sharply as she levered herself up using the sink. Shrugging out of her clothes was a painful process. She ended up cutting off her shirt and bandages in one go. The alcohol burned like hellfire, and she screamed into the towel she'd shoved into her mouth, fingers locked on the dingy porcelain for dear life. She knew if she went down again she wouldn't get back on her feet. The world swayed, blurred out white hot for a moment, then should could breath again. Shallow and harsh but breathing was breathing.

She strung the needle with trembling fingers, it took her half a dozen tries, a testament to the state of her well being. Stitch up, she told herself, drink some water, get some sleep. Baby steps, Clint would tell her. That almost made her smile. Clint had an intimate relationship with having his ass kicked. She wished he was here and that hit her like a blow. She wasn't used to wanting people. Needing them was one thing, people were useful for a number of things, especially ones like Clint.But while she could explain away the longing in her chest as the basic need to feel protected when she was physically vulnerable, she didn't really want to. Clint was a good man who had lived a rough life and did a dirty job, just like the rest of them. But there was something in the his ready smile, his jokes, his easy laughter that made her _want_ to do better, to be better. No for him, but herself. Clint was living proof that you could shatter and not only survive, but live. Clint laughed at her poor attempts at humor, Clint sat in silence and let her lick her wounds. Clint was patient, because he saw that she was trying and trying was what mattered. This life was never one she was meant for, a life where she protected people, where she could have attachments. 

The thought grounded her as she pushed the needle through her skin, reminded her to breath through the pain when the spots danced before her vision. There had been a time when she felt no pain, those days were gone, but not missed. Pain reminded her she was alive. 

The exit wound was a different beast, the bullet had angled down on it's passage through her body, she was lucky it hadn't hit bone. She had to turn to reach it and managed just barely, pulling the fresh stitches in her belly. She was on her knees, tears hot on her face and breath shaking, by the time she tied the treat off. 

She thought about drinking water from the sink, she was so thirsty, thought about carwling to the dingy bed in the room. Instead she laid for a long time, pressed to the cold, dirty tile. She didn't remember pulling the phone out of her jacket pocket, as if it had simply appeared in her hand, screen bright as it came alive. She typed in a half remembered number, though she didn't expect an answer. She didn't know where Clint was. If he was on an op, he wouldn't have his personal phone. She should have contacted an operative, should have contacted Fury. But inside, she dialed Clint's number and listened to it ring.

He picked up on the trill. 

“Natasha,” he said and all the breath left her in a sigh. His voice was like a balm and she was to tired to hate herself for that.

“Hey,” She croaked, her own voice sounding reedy to her ears.

“Hey yourself,” he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle, “What happened?”

“Maybe I just wanted to say hey? Can't a girl phone a friend when she's painting her toenails or something?”

She could almost hear his exasperated smile over the phone.

“Come on Natasha we both know you only do your nails when I'm there to do them for you. You aren't gonna let my makeup artist skills go to waste now, are you?,” he was quiet for a moment, “besides, you don't sound like you're having a beauty night? What happened?” 

A sob clawed it's way out of her throat before she could choke it down. The man who died had a family, people who would miss him. His body was still out in the desert, food for carrion. If his people ever got him back, it would have to be a closed casket funeral. If she was gone, there was no one to miss her like that. She wondered what kind of sendoff they would give her when she was gone? Would she be a hero in death, send off with honors? Or would she spend death the same way she'd spent life, anonymous, her ashes stowed in a jar somewhere with a fading number and the name Jane Doe printed in harsh letters. The thought had never bothered her before, but laying there on the dingy linoleum, it wormed it's way into her chest, sat heavy and toxic in her belly. She couldn't say she deserved better than a dusty spot on a shelf. She had too much red in her ledger for anything else. 

“What happened, Tasha?” his voice painfully gentle on the other line. 

“I fucked up,” she chocked, “I was watching a physicist, supposed to bring him to El Paso, get him somewhere secure. Someone shot out our tires outside a Odessa, sent us right off a cliff. We mad it out, and he shot my man. He had a metal arm, Clint.”

“What about you?”

Natasha swallowed hard, bit her lip. Her pain was a direct result of her own failure, a punishment and a reminder. Next time, do better or next time you're dead. Clint worried about things, about her. He cared too much. 

“Natasha,” Clint asked, voice firm but gentle, “What's your status?”

“GSW, lower abdomen. Through and through, not perceivable internal damage.”

Clint swore under his breath.

“How much blood you lost?”

“Two pints, maybe?”

“Where are you?”

“Some little shithole a couple hours south of Odessa. You mind sending someone out here to get me? My car's totaled,” she joked lamely.

“I'm already on my way.”

“What,” she hissed in surprise. Last she'd heard, Clint was chasing ghosts half way around the world. 

“Fury called me in when you didn't show,” Clint explained and her gut twisted.

“He think I needed to be put down? That it turned?”

“If he did, he wouldn't have sent me to do it. I made that call the first time around, nothing's changed,” he told her firmly, “he's worried about you Tasha, though he'd never say it. You're good at disappearing but you always show back up. When you didn't he knew something was up. You're not the type to show up late to a drop and not report if you're able.”

She sighed, melted back into the cool floor under her cheek. She should have called Fury. She was so tired.

“Can you turn the gps on your phone on, so I can find you?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to stay on the phone with you?” 

“I want to shower and I want to sleep

“Okay. I'll be there in a few hours. It's almost over, try and rest.”

“Thank you,” she whispered listening to the silence as she hung up.

A shower tuned out to be more of a clothed flop into the bathtub, letting the water turn rust colored around her. When it turned cold, she wiped her body with a washcloth, and struggled to the bed. Her side throbbed and she wished she'd thought to get drugs, or to leave enough vodka in the bottle to drink herself into a slightly better state. She curled, wet and naked, under the stiff duvee, and, even with the sharp pain of a bullet track in her belly, she slept.

And woke to the sound of foot steps, her muscles clenching in the readiness to spring. It burned, but survival gnawed at the most basic part of her brain.

“Hey,” a familiar voice spoke, and the bed dipped as Clint sat down next to her on the bed, “It's okay. Just me.”

“How'd you get in here,” she garbled.

“If I can't make it into a roach motel without a key then I need to lose my job,” he said, reaching out to brush the tangled, dirty curls out of her face, “I thought you said you were gonna shower?”

“Tried,” she sighed, “too much work.”

Clint's brows furrowed, the way he always did when he was concerned. He touched the edge of the bedspread, cast her a questioning look. She nodded, pushing the covers down, and tried to prop on her elbow to unwind the bandage. But her body had gotten stiff in her sleep, and the pain hit her like a freight train. Clint saw it, got his arms around her and tucked her into his chest to stifle the noise. Calloused fingers worked slow, soothing circles between her shoulder blades. 

When the pain eased enough that she could breath again, he helped her unwind the stretch bandage, nose curling at the tight stitches on her front and back. Looking at them now, she was almost appalled at her own handy work. 

“Shit, Natasha,” he breathed.

“Sorry I don't have as much practice at sewing myself back together.”

Clint snorted.

“But you can still make potshots with the best of them, can't you?” he said, affection clear in his voice. He stroked her curls, almost absently, and she leaned into the touch with out meaning to. She liked when he touched her. It didn't feel false, or as if she owed him anything. It was the simple act of comfort, a way to keep his hands busy. Laying their, her head cradled in the bend of his elbow, half in his lap, she could almost believe someone cared about her. Her. Natasha Romanoff, the only name that had ever felt like it fit her skin. 

He slid away from her after a moment, laying her slowly back onto the musty pillows and reaching for his duffle bag. Out of it, he pulled an orange pill bottle.

“I brought you the good stuff,” he said, shaking the bottle, “You think you can manage if I help you sit up?”

She nodded, allowing him to get a hand under her shoulders. He felt impossibly warm against her clammy skin. She down two white pills and bottle of water without blinking. She polished off a second bottle in short order. She remembered once, in Budapest, she'd done the same for him. A bullet had slid like a knife between his ribs. They'd made it out together then, they'd make it out together now.

“Let's get you that proper shower huh?” he asked, and she nodded against his shoulder aching and tired to the bone, “I brought you some clean clothes too. Then we'll hit the road. Sound good?”

He lifted her as easily as a child, one arm around her middle and the other under her knees. Her eyes slid shut, and for a moment she just listened to him breath. Maybe someone would pull her ashes off a shelf one day after all. Maybe her plaque would not be nameless. 

 


	3. Arguing- Steve/Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Arguing/fighting- Steve/Bucky  
> Preserum Steve gets in a fight and Bucky puts his foot down. Threw in a little bit of personal head canon that Bucky is ethnically jewish. So yeah.
> 
> Disclaimer: i don't own these characters and I make no money here.

“You're moron. I swear to god, I don't care what the doctor's say. There has to be something wrong with your brain too, because no one in their right mind takes on four guys, all of whom probably had a hundred pounds on you easy, with a trash can lid over a fucking tomcat,” Bucky snarled, slamming the towel and a bottle of rubbing alcohol on the kitchen table so hard it rattled his mother's centerpiece.

“They were gonna kill that poor thing Bucky. They were torturing it to death. I don't care that it was just a cat. It wasn't right,” he snapped back, bloody faced.

Bucky's brows furrowed.

“They would have killed you, if Tommy and I hadn't found you. Why you gonna just fucking stay down? Or better yet, learned to run away.”

Steve shook his head.

“If you start running...”

“I know, I know,” Bucky cut him off, “they'll never let you stop.”

Bucky caught his chin, tilted his head up, wiping the blood none too gently off Steve's face. He jerked, hissed, when Bucky pressed a thumb hard into Steve' cheek bone to hold him still.

“You should have a doctor look at you.”

Steve frowned.

“Don't start Bucky.”

“Jesus Steve, my parents got a little money saved up. They don't mind helping.”

Steve's furrowed, his jaw clenched and Bucky cursed himself. He'd always been sensitive about these kinds of things, about feeling like a burden, especially since his mom had died. Every one know it was TB that had taken Sarah Roger's life, but Steve worried that he'd killed her. He was sure, some where in his soul, that all her worry and fret over him had made her too tired to fight off the disease in the first place. Steve didn't feel he deserved the affection and kindness of others.

He'd told Bucky once, sitting on the roof after he drank to much. Cried about how much better his mother had deserved, a husband who drank to much, a son who was too sick to take care of her. Steve never felt good enough and the thought cut Bucky like a knife between the ribs. Nothing had every been easy for Steve. Not even the simple things, not eating, not seeing, or hearing, or breathing. Steve with his crooked back, his bad heart, and his worse stomach. Yet Steve refused to quite, refused to take an ounce of pity or charity. Bucky knew part of it was Steve's pride yes, but there was some part of Steve that knew someone, somewhere had it worse than him, so what right did he have to let his ailment slow him down? What right did he have to accept the aid someone else may not have? Steve refused to lay because Steve honestly, believed, in his heart, that he owed it to the world to do better. Bucky wondered, constantly, how those small, off set shoulders, could bear so much weight. Steve couldn't see his own goodness. That worried Bucky more than anything. Steve's would die in an alley on day, thinking he'd failed, never realizing how damned strong he was. Bucky lived in fear of the day that Steve stopped breathing.

People in the neighborhood had always taken one look at the two of them and thought they knew. They thought Steve needed Bucky, to protect him maybe. Anyone with a lick of sense could see Steve didn't want anyone trying to protect him. He thought he needed to protect everyone else. Bucky thought maybe, sometimes he was right. When Bucky had moved to the neighborhood, he'd been the weird boy from Indiana, with the twangy talking farm boy father and the romanian jewish mother. He was too young to remember much about their home in the midwest, but he remembered the night they'd found a burning cross in their yard. Mother had family in New York, a cousin had given his father a job as a clerk. They'd packed all they owned in suitcases and drove out the same day the letter came. Steve had been his first friend, the too small boy that lived upstairs with his mother, a little boy who didn't run fast or stand up straight, but wouldn't let the other boys trick Bucky into doing stuff that'd get him in trouble. Bucky had been fishing him out of dumpsters since.

Steve always knew when Bucky was hurting, always encouraged him to do the things he wanted. Bucky was handsome, he was smart and strong and he liked people, but sometimes they were exhausting for him. It was easy to be around Steve, Steve didn't need him to fill the silence. Bucky liked girls and dancing and sharp clothes and liquor. But he also like books, poetry, watching the way Steve's hand slid across the paper and wishing he had that kind of gift. He liked the boys he saw outside the St. George. Sometimes, Bucky got just got numb, sometimes for weeks, a kind of empty sadness that mad it hard to get out of bed. Steve didn't question, didn't tell him it was in his head. Steve listen, Steve kept Bucky's secrets. Steve made Bucky want to do better, because if Steve was willing to stand up to the bastards, Bucky felt he had the right to do no less.

Looking at him now, bent over in the Barnes' kitchen chair, face set even under the blood, something wormed it's way under Bucky's rib, a feeling of nervousness he couldn't place. He swallowed and set his jaw.

“You're staying here tonight,” Bucky said gruffly, pouring more alcohol onto the rag and scrubbing it across the scrap on Steve's jaw.

“Bucky...”

Bucky fixed Steve with a hard stare.

“You're heater's broken again. Don't lie to me, I already know, Mrs. Hennessy told me she heard it sputter out. It's going to freeze tonight. So you're staying here,” Bucky said, “It's not a discussion.”

 

 

 


	4. Forbidden relationship-pre serum Steve/Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: forbidden relationship  
> pairing: Steve/Bucky  
> Steve and Bucky, after a few drinks, talk about love and what they both want but can't have.
> 
> disclaimer: I don't own these characters and i make no money

Bucky was drunk. Snookered. Three sheets the wind and gone.

Steve took another pull off his own bottle, pull the smoke of his asthma cigarettes into his lungs, enjoying the last tolerable cool of Autumn. Soon it would be too cold at night for his lungs to handle. Bucky would make staying in seem like his idea, the way he always did, as if Steve wasn't sharp enough to figure it out. He wanted to be mad about it sometimes, when Bucky did things to protect him. He didn't need protecting. He wasn't spun sugar or glass. But Bucky meant well, Bucky always told him the truth when he needed to hear it. Bucky loved him for his weakness, and even if Steve's fighting worried him, made him made as hell, he understood why Steve did it.

Steve tongued the cut on the inside of his lip, busted by some neighborhood rowdy who thought he could take fruit without paying because the seller was brown. Steve had called him out as a thief and got popped in the mouth for his effort. He'd paid the man for the fruit when he came round, even if the fella hadn't wanted to take it. Bucky was furious with him. He watched Bucky now, dancing with some invisible dame in the silver moonlight. He was beautiful, handsome and graceful, in a way no man had the right to be. All blue grey eyes, the color of spring storm clouds, and a mouth that was made for smiling. He was hard muscle under his skin, smooth and lean and handsome, like the marble statues in Steve's art history books. Sometimes Steve thought he looked like David, lost in some deep thought. Sometimes he looked like Achilles, young, virile, and invincible. But right now, he was Micheal, beautiful and ethereal, the kind of loveliness that made the good catholic boy in Steve fear for his soul.

He loved Bucky. He loved him since he was twelve years old, and he felt the first stirring in his body for pretty girls and, jarringly, pretty boys. But Bucky was different. Bucky was smart and strong and beautiful and so damn good. Steve felt like there was a Bucky shaped hole in hist chest, filled but the closeness of his best friend. It was all they could ever have, they both knew it, and for Steve, it was enough. In a perfect world, Steve could love him better, love him the way Bucky wanted. He would die young, he knew he would despite Bucky's protests, the way his cheeks flushed red with fearful anger when Steve talked about it. For Steve, though, it was something of a relief. Bucky could be, would be, his while he lived. When he was gone, Bucky would have a chance to meet a girl, settle down, and have kids, with full life still ahead of him. It wasn't a bad life. But it wasn't an option. They could get jailed if they started that and people found out. Fairies and Sodomites were tolerated in certain neighborhoods, but those places weren't safe from cops and raids and crack downs.

Bucky flopped bonelessly onto the grass at his side, drunk and grinning. His hair fell across his eyes, not slicked back with pomade the way it usually was. Steve reached over, ran his fingers through it and Bucky purred like a cat, shifted and dropped his head into Steve's lap.

“You got the most beautiful eyes,” he beamed, words only a little slurred with drink, “any body ever tell you that?”

Steve shrugged, setting his flask aside, finger combing Bucky's hair.

“You may have mentioned it once or twice.”

“Good. You should be told how beautiful you are.”

“Getting mushy on me now, Barnes,” he teased.

Bucky swatted at his arm.

“Shut up, punk, I'm trying to be romantic here.”

“Really?” Steve asked in mock surprise, “I thought you were just drunk.”

“Aww come one Stevie,” He said, sitting up in his elbows, “I'm serious. I love you. You know that.”

Steve sighed. It was an old argument.

“I know Bucky,” he said, fingers settling gently on the back of Bucky's neck. He dropped into Steve's lap, but his smile was gone.

“I wish they'd just let me take care of you, ya know? Why's it gotta be so wrong, loving a fella the way I love you? Achilles loved Patroclous, didn't he? And they were still warriors?”

“Damn right,” Steve agreed, taking a puff off his cigarette.

“I mean, maybe would should just say to hell with them. I could take care of you Stevie.”

Steve smiled sadly.

“I don't need you to take care of me Buck.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and gave a long suffering sigh.

“I know you don't need me to. I want to. What's wrong with that? What's wrong with wanting to share a bed with you? Wanting to kiss you and hold you and dance with you? It ain't hurting anybody.”

“I know Buck,” he said forlornly, “but neither of us would survive prison.”

Bucky caught Steve's hand, a little cold from the chill and poor circulation. He kissed the pads of Steve's fingers, held them against his chest to warm them.

“We could run away. I got little money saved up, Pop's got some stashed up for when I get married, for a honeymoon. We could go to Paris or something. There's lots of art there right? Artists are more understanding and Europe is so old, I doubt they care that much about queers anyway. I got skils as a worker and a clerk. You could sell your drawings. We could be okay.”

“You'd never be happy in Paris,” Steve teased, “There's no baseball.”

“I'm serious Steve,” he said, in the tone that made Steve's heart hurt in his chest, “We could make something, us two. I love you, and you love me and I want to be with you.”

“The be with me,” Steve said, “Be my best friend. Be the guy I know has my back. Be the guy who makes sure our heat's working and I didn't miss a button on my shirt.”

Bucky stared at him for a long moment, watching hims with those soulful, stormy eyes. It didn't matter what they wanted. At the end of the day the only life they could have as lovers was a miserable one. Out and labeled as damaged or hiding in secret and praying no one figured it out. It wasn't the sort of life you wanted, if you loved someone, he thought. Telling Bucky no hurt, but he knew watching him become an outcast would be worse.

“Okay,” he said quietly, “okay.”

Steve smiled, and Bucky leaned up to kiss, chaste and gentle, before he stood, grabbed his bottle, and started for home.

 


	5. Abandoned locations- Sam/Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Abandoned locations  
> pairing: Sam/Bucky ( mentioned Steve/Sharon)  
> On a mission, Bucky finds himself in a place he forgot. Mentions of the wiping torture chair thing.
> 
> disclaimer: i don't own the characters and I make no money

Sam knew Russia would be could, but he wasn't prepared for the bone deep kind of chill that settled in his chest. The old car grumbled around them, and Sam buried his hands deeper in the pockets of his parka, watching the tundra out the window.

Bucky was too quiet in the driver's seat. Since he'd come back, a handful of years ago now, he'd become a whole other person that then man who'd ripped Sam's steering wheel off. He still didn't cringed at unexpected sounds, like a car backfiring or a glass shattering, and couldn't stomach the taste of milk but he smiled and laughed. He liked books and dancing and any kind of music he could get his hands on. He ate the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms and slept with as many blankets on him as he could without suffocating. He color coded things because colors, outside red and black, made him happy. He liked John Hughes movies, and would say anyone who didn't think the Notebook was sad was a damn liar. He spoiled Sam's nieces rotten and he and Steve were banned form mario kart because they were too damned comparative. He was a thousand inconsequential details that had somehow come together into a man who had one foot in the past and one in present.

Sam risked a glance at him and the stone of worry settled heavy in his gut. Bucky's face was cold, blank, unreadable. He always got stony, when there was work to be done, Sam way Steve or anyone else did. He was focused. But this was different. For a moment, it was the Winter Soldier sitting across the seat from him and that terrified him.

He wished Steve were here and yet part of him knew it was better that he'd been called up by the Avengers, cleaning up some mess in London. True that Steve had a way of reading Bucky's moods, he'd known him longer than Sam, but he fretted and sometimes that made things worse. Steve wanted to protect people from the world, from themselves, Bucky didn't like feeling like he needed protecting, even if he did. They were the same, in that way, and both stubborn to boot. Sharon and Sam had spend long hours in the gym bemoaning the stubbornness of super soldier boyfriends.

Russia seemed to have sapped all the warmth out of Bucky's skin, all the fire in his eyes. Most day's Bucky talked like he'd never left Brooklyn. But here he spoke Russian as if it was his mother tongue, his english coming out flat and foreign to Sam's ears. He shot a man in the head yesterday, hadn't even missed a step. Bucky had killed on other missions, it was part of his job, but he was usally so tempered, a killing stroke only used as a lat resort. Murder left him raw afterwards, bad missions, the bloody ones, meant days in bed when he returned, curled up against Sam under the blankets or hiding in tight spaces until his nerves weren't so exposed anymore. The man he'd killed yesterday, had probably deserved it, Sam knew. He was a cleaner, he made bodies disappear. The fact that Bucky had not blinked, had shot him merely in passing, worried Sam. He'd watched it from the air, and from above the rooftops, it seemed like he was watching the actions of a stranger.

“Where are we going,” Sam asked into the silence. They hadn't spoken since they left Moscow hours ago, on a stolen car. The man wouldn't report them, his neck had been snapped quietly. Bucky had done that too, but Sam had not argued. He'd seen the files, he wouldn't feel bad over the lose of a man who trafficked women's bodies like they were animals, who lined the pockets of hydra with the blood money.

“I'm not exactly sure,” Bucky said cooly, fingers tight on the steering wheel, “But I know I've been on there before. And I know it has something to do with the man who's car we're driving and the one we were sent here to get.”

Sam sighed, breath fogging the cold glass.

“How do you know,” he asked.

Sam was sure it was some residual part of his training, some internal homing beacon to pull him back to the hive if the Soldier ever wandered away, because sometimes Bucky simply knew things, without knowing why. He spoke and read languages he did not remember learning, knew how to swim, how to drive, how to cute throats. He knew how to scale walls, knew how to jump ten stories and hit the ground running. The things he knew, with no context, no frame work, things that were more muscle memory than connotative learning, scared him. Sam wondered if he was scared now, behind the blankness. He watched Bucky for a moment longer, but the other's eyes never left the road. Sam turned back to the window, and watch the fur trees and scattered houses fly past.

*~*~*

They drove for hours, before Bucky took a sharp left. The new road was narrow and old, winding up into the hills. The impressive stone mansion it lead to reminded Sam of something out of an old movie. It loomed against the grey sky, stone walls covered in climbing ivy, dark windows staring down at them like empty eyes, watching. Bucky got out of the car without a word and Sam followed.

“I've been here before,” Bucky said, staring up at the empty house.

For a moment, Sam feared the worst. Bucky had killed a lot of people. Where there bodies in this house, blood on the persian rugs? What if this place broke something in Bucky, left him a panicked screaming mess the way that hotel in Paris or a plain strip of road outside of Odessa had? Sam knew how to deal with people in pain, that was his job, but out here, who know who was following them or watching them? He could fly out of danger, but he would leave Bucky in the thick of it in alone.

“You want to go in,” Sam asked, eyes darting to the dark trees, “or should we keep going?”

It was inhumanly quiet here, the way the desert had never been. The dark furs loomed over them, like shadowed giants, watching. He tried not to think about how well the long needles would hide the figure of a man. No cars had followed them. Only a few cars had passed in the other direction. They were alone, the logical part of his brain knew that, but Sam couldn't shake the feeling they was being watched.

“It's too cold. We don't want to be out on the road when the tempurature drops. We'll head towards Arkhanglesk in the morning,” Bucky said absently, walking towards the door as Sam grabbed their bag and followed.

The doors were heavy, carved wood, that may have once been a bright red but were now dull and peeling, like dry blood. They weren't locked, but Bucky had to put his metal shoulder into budging the warped, swollen wood. Sam tried to keep his jaw from hitting the floor. This place was a true mansion, or had been once. Even under the layers of dust, the carpets and hard wood floors were rich and opulent. The staircase that rose about him was massive, with it fine, carved hand rails. It looked like something out of a movie at first glance but a second look gave him the less outwards signs of abandonment. There was a tasteful furniture in the hall, but there were no pictures on the walls. There was an old rotary phone on the hall table, next to a candelabra, but the wicks were unburnt.

Bucky opened a set wooden doors that slid back into the walls. Sam followed him, into a room that looked rather like a parlor from an old movie, the kind of room made for tea and reading by the fire. One wall was dominated by a huge hearth, empty and sad looking. There were a couple of chairs, and a love seat, covered in old sheets. Once again, the place was tasteful, but oddly empty. No pictures, un burnt candles, no personal touches. Under the dust, everything in this room seemed pristine. The far wall was lined with bookshelves, but when Sam looked closer, all the covers looked like new.

Sam dropped the bag and Bucky went to look at the breaker box, maybe a wood pile, some way to keep them warm. Sam grabbed his flashlight, and went exploring. Upstairs he found six bedrooms, each with their own bath, in the same pristine, yet impersonal. Downstairs, he found a kitchen, stocked mostly with dried food and cans, some with expiration dates that had yet to pass, though they were pushing it. He found a wood shed behind the kitchen, but Sam noticed, oddly, that piles of wood within were bundled and wrapped in with plastic zip ties. The hatchet, leaning against the outside of the shed, was rusted but looked otherwise unused. Someone had brought this wood here from elsewhere, but wanted it to appear from the outside that someone was cutting it. The house looked opulent, but upon examination, it was anonymous and unlived in. A cover, a safe house maybe.

He found a box of matches, buried in a drawer behind a mouse nest, and grabbed a a few bundles of wood, before heading back to the parlor. He found Bucky, sitting cross legged on the floor, staring at the book shelves.

“Any luck with the power Buck?” he asked cautiously.

Bucky just shook his head.

“I'm going to go ahead and start a fire. There's a linen closet upstairs, we should bring the blankets down here.”

“Have you ever read Frankenstien,” Bucky interrupted, the light from the wide window cast his shadow long against the far wall, like an avenging angel.

“Yeah, a couple times actually,” he replied, “Why?”

Bucky clamoured to his feet, fingers dancing along the dusty spines like he was looking for them.

“I read Steve's copy once, right after I came back. Did you feel bad for the monster?”

Sam put down the wood and matches.

“I think we're supposed to. It could help what was happening. Frankentstien made a bad call, he was too proud and too ambitious. He couldn't handle what he had created. That wasn’t the monster's fault, Frankenstein created it, and then abandoned it. That's the tragedy, that when man plays god, we fail a lot more than ourselves,” He said, coming up close behind the other man.

“The monster was angry,” Bucky said, closing his fingers around one of the books. The title was written in Cyrillic, virtually unreadable to Sam but he had a good guess, “The monster was the wrath of God, brought down on the doctor's head.”

He yanked the book off the shelf and Sam jumped at the sound of tumblers and squeaking mechanics, as the shelf swung inward. A long line of florescent lights came to life and Sam blinked in the sudden brightness.

Bucky let out a shaky sigh.

“I told you I've been here before,” he said, and his voice sounded small, lost.

Sam reached for Bucky's shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. Bucky needed to know he wasn't alone.

“We can close this up, go lay by the fire. We'll leave at sunrise.”

Bucky shook his head, and stepped inside. Sam followed at his side.

There was a second set of doors, a third, Bucky's fingerprints opened the scanners without a problem. The hall opened into a wide room, that locked half lab, half hospital. Gurneys, IV stands, a huge metal tube that reminded him of an MRI machine. But the chair stood out, setting between two dark metal arches. Sam's stomach dropped. He'd read the files. He knew what these machines did and what had happened here.

“ 1951, 1969, 1994, 2002, 2011” Bucky said, eyes locked on the chair, “This was the base they used, any time I had a mark in eastern Europe. I didn't thaw well in the early days, so they made the posts reclusive, removed. If I got out, how much havoc could I reek out here?”

Rage sat in Sam's stomach like a stone. There was video, grainy video from the seventies, film in sharper resolution from the early 2000's, that had come out when when Hydra was exposed, too many seconds of a familiar body arched and screaming against a piece of rubber shoved between his teeth. They had tortured him in this chair, over, and over. No one had tried to stop them. No one had even thought that this might be wrong. They made the videos for research, to show how far they had come. They created a monster, with no thought to the consequences, to the flesh that held their experiment. The monster to their Frankenstein. The must have abandoned it when Hydra went down.

Bucky stood for a long time, looking at the chair, before he started shaking. Sam didn't know if it was the cold, real and imagined, or something else, but he didn't want to stay here and find out. Sam caught Bucky's wrist, pulled him gently away.

“Come one, lets go upstairs and get a fire started okay?”

Bucky nodded, turning away from the chair, letting Sam lead him out the way they'd come.

*~*~*

They found a pile of comforters that seemed to have avoided too much mouse damage. They grabbed a couple bottles of wine, some jerky, and a couple cans of peas. They'd both eaten worse in war time. They created a barrier with the now uncovered chairs and love seat and built the firs as high as felt safe. Curled under the blankets, Bucky finally relaxed, lighting a cigarette from the pack he'd found in one of the bedrooms off a match.

“In Brooklyn” Bucky said quitely, “we used to smoke a shit ton in the winter. Keep your lungs warm, everybody said, chase out a cough. But the also said cigarettes would help Steve's athsma too so...”

He shrugged and took a long drag of smoke, blowing it smoothly back out through his nose, and scowled.

“These have been here a while,” he scowled, but he it back to hip lips all the same.

“How you holding up?”

Bucky shrugged.

“Yes? No? I don't know. Part of me thinks I should feel something more, that I should be more afraid. But I'm not. There's nothing here, no body but us,” he said, looking at Sam for what felt like the first time in days, “There's this, crawling, under my skin, knowing what happened here, knowing I tracked blood into this house, knowing what they did to me. But I know you'd never let me go back to that.”

Sam smiled, reached up and pushed a lock of dark hair behind Bucky's ear.

“Not without a fight,” Sam said, and Bucky leaned forward to kiss him for the first time since they'd landed in this frozen wasteland.

They didn't have any trouble staying warm after all.

 


	6. rough sex- sam/steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:Rough sex (biting, scratching, hair-pulling, etc.)  
> pairing:sam/steve  
> Steve's got a thing for being marked up and Sam is happy to oblige. could be read as a future installment to my art shop au. Mostly I just look for reasons to write about tiny Steve.
> 
> disclaimer: i don't own these characters and I make no money

“Sam AH stop!” Steve growled, pushing at his boyfriend's shoulder, “You can't do that! We have Mia's birthday party tomorrow and I am not wearing a turtle neck.”

Sam grinned devilishly, ran his tongue over the pink mark on Steve's neck.

“It's not my fault you bruise like a peach. You could always were that scarf Bucky gave you, the striped one. It looks good on you.”

Steve's brows furrowed.

“It's the middle of July.”

Sam shrugged, spread himself out over Steve's wiry form, pushing his boyfriend's too long hair out of his face.

“You're an artist. Aren't you supposed to be subversive and stuff,” Sam teased, dragging his teeth along the curve of Steve's collarbones, standing out starkly under skin and ink, reveling a little in the shiver that shook Steve's frame for a second.

“Your mother is going to be there,” he huffed, “Your _grandmother_ is going to be there. You think your Nan isn't going to notice if I come in looking like a leopard?”

Sam chuckled against Steve's skin, kissing his way down the scar that spanned Steve's breast bone.

“I will have you know, my Nan is a very enlightened individual, thank you very much,” Sam said, looking up at Steve through his lashes, fingers already working at the button of Steve's jeans, before he went back to nipping the concave expanse of Steve's stomach.

Sam had marveled, the first time he'd seen Steve, that the young artist was no bigger than a minute. He'd marveled at it again, the first time he'd seen Steve clock some guy in the jaw, that a body so little and that had seen so much carried one of the biggest hearts and most brilliant souls that Sam had ever seen. And he was the lucky bastard that got to sleep next to this man every night.

Steve huffed and whined, almost petulantly, as Sam slid his jeans and boxes off in one fell swoop, but he didn't make any move to stop the undressing. Steve had never been very good at surrender. Sam just smiled against the fair, freckled skin, a quiet promise to make it worth it.

“Are clothed areas off limits too?” he asked, dragging his teeth along the sharp jut of Steve's hip bone.

“You're an ass,” Steve huffed, flushed pink to the ears.

“At least I have an ass,” he chuckled.

Steve rolled his eyes and gave a long suffering sigh, but he was grinning.

“If I can see even one of these bruises after I get dressed tomorrow, you're doing dishes for a week,” Steve said, reaching down to run a hand over Sam's shoulder. There was still charcoal dust under his fingernails, a smudge of it across his forehead where he'd brushed his bangs out of his face.

“Deal,” Sam replied, leaning up to kiss Steve, who met him halfway.

Sam peppered his boyfriend's stomach with kisses, worried at the too sharp hipbones with his tongue for a moment, pushing at Steve's thighs and settling between them. Steve was looking down at him, chest rising falling just a hair too quick, lip caught between his teeth. The picture went straight to Sam's groin. He palmed Steve's cock, pulling a tight curse from above. Sam grinned like a wolf against Steve's skin, catching the meat of his thigh between his teeth, and biting hard.

Steve yelped, as much in surprise as pain, pushing himself up on his elbows and look down at Sam with furrowed brows.

“Hey!”

Sam beamed, resting his chin on Steve's hip.

“What? You said no bruises where people could see. You planning on wearing booty shorts to my niece's birthday party are you?”

Steve snorted, and dropped back into the pillows in defeat.

“Well I'm not now,” Steve chuckled, scooting back against the head board to watch.

“You are too good to me,” Sam teased, running his fingers lightly up the underside of Steve's cock, watching the way his boyfriend's breath faltered.

“Damn straight,” Steve panted, fingers caught in the sheets, raising his knees to give Sam more room. Suddenly, Sam's boxer's were rather uncomfortable.

Sam grinned, fingers wrapping loosely around Steve's cock, mouth catching the tender flesh of his boyfriend's thigh again, a little harder this time. Steve made a breathless sound above him, something between a curse and whimper, arching into Sam's grip will he sucked the bitten skin pink, lathed it with his tongue, nipped it again.

“Jesus Sam,” Steve panted, one hand still tangled in the sheets, the mapping the muscles of Sam's bicep.

Sam pulled back a little, tightening his grip on Steve's erection, and blowing a stream of cool air on the red, bitten skin. It would be a livid bruise by morning. Steve made another broken sound, hips bucking into Sam's hold. Head tipped back, eyes half closed, mouth half open, Steve looked to Sam like a god damned wet dream. Sam kissed his way back up Steve's torso, counted the ribs with his mouth, drug his teeth lightly over one pink nipple, feeling the body under his hands shiver. Steve caught his chin, pulled him down for an impatient kiss, all teeth and tongue, and Sam let him, stroking his prick in a slow, firm grip.

“Fuck,” Steve groaned against his mouth, long fingers digging into Sam's hips.

“Well, I was hoping that was the direction we were headed,” Sam quipped, kissed Steve's jaw.

“Oh har,” Steve said wryly, slithering out of Sam's grip to reach into the night stand drawer.

He tossed the bottle of lube onto the bed, then reached down to snap the waistband of Sam's boxers.

“I don't think you'll be needing these anymore,” he said, leaning in to nip the underside of Sam's chin. Slender artists hands slid down Sam's spine, giving Sam's ass a cursory squeeze.

Sam kicked his way out of his boxers, tossing them onto the floor with the rest of their clothes, pinched the inside of Steve's thigh where he'd worried at the skin only moments ago. Steve made a pleased sound, flopping over on his belly and spreading his thighs to make room for Sam's bulk.

Steve shifted underneath him, pulling one of the bed pillows under his slim hips, made a pleased sound when Sam nipped at his outer thigh, wrapped his arms around a pillow of his own. Sam ran his slick fingers down the cleft of Steve's ass, the back up again, brushing Steve's hole but nothing more.

Steve huffed and Sam looked up to see a pair of blue eyes staring back at him indignantly.

“Can I help you with something?” Sam said innocently, cupping Steve's balls, revealing maybe a little to much in the way Steve's breath caught and his ears turned pink again.

“Now you're just being a tease.”

Sam shrugged, .

“You act like that's a surprise,” He purred, ghosting his fingers up the cleft of Steve's ass again, pressing hard at the base of Steve's tailbone in a way that made the smaller man shutter and melt.

Steve whined and cursed, pushing his face into the pillow. The first time Steve had shyly asked Sam to mark him, the older man had been a little taken aback. He'd worried about hurting the small bird boned body, bitting too hard on skin so easily bruised. Seeing what it did to Steve though, turned him into a shuttering mess the minute Sam got skin between his teeth, the way he'd press his fingers against the bruises and smile for days afterward, had been quick enough to change his mind.

“Saaammm”

Sam smiled, leaned in and bit Steve's cheek, just below where his underwear would sit when he was clothed; a fine place for a love mark. He worried the flesh with his teeth and tongue, sucked the skin pink, pulling away with a lewd pop.

“Ask me nicely,” he sighed against the rosy skin, wet and shiny from his mouth and warm from the blood rising to the surface.

“Please,” Steve groaned, face hidden in the pillow he was hugging.

“So polite,” Sam teased, reaching across the best for the plastic bottle.

He sat back to pour a bit into his palm, kissing Steve's back while he warmed it between his hands. He grinned, looking at Steve spread out before him like a banquet. The thought went straight to his cock.

He crawled back between the ivory pale thighs, trailed his fingers, feather light, from the base of Steve's spine to his balls and then back, before pushing a single finger into Steve to the knuckle.

Steve yelped, head coming up and hips arching, as much in surprise as please. Sam stroked the familiar tightness of Steve's body, pulling the digit almost out and then all back in, working the lube into his lover's body. Steve was panting now, Sam could hear him, could feel the way he heaved under the hand thats slid up his side, back down to his thigh.

“Breath,” Sam spoke against the small of Steve's back, finger still buried in slender, quaking body.

Above him, Steve took a few deep gulps of air.

“I'm fine, I swear. Don't stop,” Steve growled.

Satisfied, Sam started working a mark onto Steve's other cheek, right above his thigh, a bruise he'd feel when he sat. Steve let out a wrecked sound, swearing, even as he drew out Sam's name, when a second finger joined the first. He bucked and cursed, arched into Sam's fingers will the man's mouth made a map of love marks of his skin. Sam would bite down and curl his fingers at once, pushing against the familiar tight warmth Steve's body in a way that made him come undone. By the time Sam had four fingers in him, there were more than half a dozen marks on Steve's ass, his back, his thighs. He all but sobbed when Sam's fingers brushed the bundle of nerves inside him.

“Please Sam, oh my god _please,_ ” he choked, his muscles shaking with his white knuckle grip on the pillows.

“Please what, baby,” Sam replied, crawling up the length of Steve's body, kissing the curve of his jaw, changing the angle of his fingers inside Steve's ass.

“Please fuck me,” he whined, “want you in me _ohmyGOD.”_

 _“_ I thought that's what I was doing,” he said innocently, pushing pointedly against Steve's prostate.

Steve all but wailed, pushing against the fingers and staring over his shoulder murderously at Sam.

“If you don't get your cock in me right now, you're not going to get a chance to,” he snarled, “And you'll be sleeping on the couch.”

Sam grinned like a cat in cream, his own prick hard almost to aching between his thighs. Slowly, he pulled the fingers from Steve's body.

“You okay on your belly like this, or you need to change position?”

Steve took couple of deep, shuttering breaths. He grinned wickedly over his shoulder at Sam.

“Get up against the head board. I want to ride you.”

Sam obliged, kissing the sharp jut of Steve's shoulder blades as he pulled away, and reaching for the bottle of lube again. Steve clamored into his lap, eyes fever bright and his cock was hard and pink and wet against his belly.

“You gonna keeping waiting all night Wilson,” he quipped, raising a challenging eyebrow.

“Maybe I should,” Sam replied, slicking his own cock, “Make tie you up, jerk myself and make you watch.”

Steve reached for him, caught him with hand on the back of his neck, pulling him in close.

“Would you just fuck me already,” Steve all but purred against his mouth, “I'm not getting any younger here Wilson.”

Sam got grip on Steve's boney hips, other hand reaching for his cock but Steve batted him away, wrapping Sam in his own firm grip. He wasted no time, lowering himself onto Sam's prick with an expression that was nothing short of bliss. Sam took a shuttering breath, even after he'd fingered Steve open, the tight heat made his head spin. Steve kept moving, lip caught between his teeth in a way that went straight to Sam's cock, rolling his hips until he settled fully into Sam's lap.

“Damn,” Sam chuckled breathlessly, mouthing at the curve of Steve's shoulder, fingers digging into the fresh bruises on his ass.

Steve groaned, ground his hips against Sam's, jamming their mouth's together. He was done talking, it seemed, so Sam obliged him. Holding tight to Steve's sides, he rocked his hips to the rhythm Steve set, revealing in the impossible warmth of Steve's body.

Steve rode him, rough and brutal, arms wrapping under Sam's shoulder and holding on for dear life, his prick hard against stomach. Sam kissed his jaw, his neck, nipped the curve of his shoulder, his bicep where Steve's arm wrapped around his neck. Each time his teeth found purchase on flesh, Steve's body would tighten around him like a vice, shuttering against his chest, cursing against his skin. The young artist's blunt nails clawed furrows in Sam's back, cut little half moon's into his shoulders and Sam knew it couldn't last. Steve was almost frantic in his pace, riding Sam with shaking thighs. Sam bucked upward, canting his hips just so, and Steve swore loud enough to wake the neighbors, Sam was sure.

“Fuck Sam, _oh fuck,_ ” He sobbed, head falling back.

Sam traced the line of Steve's pulse with his tongue, palm resting against the base of Steve's spine, rolling his hips up into Steve as the smaller body rocked down to met him. Steve slipped a hand between their bodies, taking himself in his fist. He was teetering on the edge and Sam was right there with him. The motion of Steve's hips grew fractured and frantic, body clenching tight as a vice around Sam's cock was he slid home again.

“Sam” Steve panted against his mouth, “harder, harder, I'm gonna com... _ooohhhhgod.”_

 _“_ It's okay, baby,” he grinned, pressed his lips against Steve's own, fingers digging into the sparse flesh of Steve's hips hard enough to bruise as he rocked up into his lover again, “I've got you. Let go.”

Steve let out a sob, fingers curling on the back of Sam's neck, cutting half moon marks into his dark skin. He crumbled, face pressed into the crook of Sam's neck, chanting his name agains his lover's skin like a prayer. Sam thrust up into him, hard and ruthless, until the body in his grip went tight as bowstring. Steve came hard against Sam's stomach, shaking apart. The sudden clutch of his body around Sam's cock, impossibly tight, yanked Sam brutally over the edge of his own orgasm. He wrapped around Steve like snake, held him tight. His hips stuttered as he pulled Steve hard into his lap and came, buried deep in the familiar body as he could manage, sinking his teeth in the meat of Steve's should so hard he nearly broke skin.

Sam fell, spent, back against the head board, Steve curled bonelessly on his chest. They laid in the near silence for a long time, Sam tracing nonsensical patterns agains Steve's back.

“I'm going to look like a leopard tomorrow,” Steve said breathlessly, but Sam could feel him smiling against the curve of his neck.

“It's a good look,” Sam replied, kissing the mussed blonde hair.

The next day, at the party, Sam took great pleasure in resting a hand on Steve's thigh under the table and the way his boyfriend's lashes fluttered when his fingers brushed one of the marks under his clothes.

 

 


	7. Betrayal- Fitz&Mack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Betrayal (to an enemy; by a cheating partner, etc.)  
> pairing: Fitz & Mack friendship  
> Alphanso Mackenzie never believed it was his right to decide who should live and who should die. But maybe Fitz did, at least when it came to Grant Ward. Spoilers for 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I make no money

 

Alphonso Mackenzie liked to think he was a pretty decent guy. He'd done things in his life he wasn't proud of, pulled a lot of triggers that needed pulling, but he never enjoyed it. It was just part of the job. Once life for the sake of many. He didn't feel that he had the right to decide who lived and who died, he left that choice to people with a better view of the big picture.

But now, watching the feeds, he wasn't so sure. He didn't know Grant Ward outside of a name and the sudden chill that came over the place at his mention. He knew the story, but he'd never spoken to the man. The last few weeks, he figured that was a good thing. Mack like Leo. He was a good kid, just hurting and confused, trying to figure out how to operate in the world with a body that didn't work the way it used to. He was isolated, Mack supposed if something like that had happened to him, he would be too. The others tired with him, they did, but they were so afraid of hurting him more, too caught up in the person they'd known, too stuck on the differences. This Jemma girl being gone seemed to have taken it's toll too, on everyone. Leo talked about her like she was the sun, and everything else revolved around her brightness.

So Mack wanted to protect the kid, even if he didn't know why, wanted to help him. He found himself offering solutions when Leo struggled for words, found himself listening more carefully to the riddles that conveyed thoughts. He tried to be Leo's friend and, while the kid seemed to prefer talking to himself, it seemed to be working. He was a good soul but he'd been through a lot.

Watching the scene play out on the scene in front of him, he realized how much.

Trip had told him the reason no one mentioned Ward being there to Fitz. That the kid had desperatley defended Ward's innocence, when everyone else had resigned themselves to fact. He'd dropped the two brits in the ocean, to suffocate, instead of killing them cleanly. Fitz had figured a way out, but only for one. He'd resigned himself to die down there. He'd survived, only because Jemma and his team had hung onto him for death life. But the brain damage they couldn't fix. With S.H.E.I.L.D underground, there was no rehab to send him to, no place he could go to recover. He was wanted, just like the rest of them, stuck in this concrete hell because he was still trying to figure out how to function in a world he could no longer communicate with the way he used to. Grant Ward had done that to him. Mack had never believed it was his place to decide who deserved to live and who didn't. But he had a feeling Grant Ward belonged in the later category.

A shrill alarm filled the control room and make looked up to see a bright red warning, a sudden change in oxygen levels in Wards cell. His fingers went instantly to the com button, ready to call Fitz back, but he hesitated, thinking long and hard about Fitz' bad days, they days were he could hardly handle speech at all. Trying to find words and failing, growing increasingly frustrated, until he broke things, until he had to curl up in some small space and sob, unable even to talk to his invisible friend. Days when no one, not even Mack, could help him function. Days where he wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, wouldn't come out of his bunk. Days were all he could do was wallow, where all he could think about was how broken he was. Fitz had trusted this man when no one else would, and it was Fitz who wore the most visible scars of the betrayal. Mack didn't think I was up to him if Ward lived or died, but maybe, it needed to be up to Fitz.

 


	8. restraints- bucky/sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:Bondage / rope play / restraints used during sex.  
> Pairing: sam/bucky(mentions of steve)
> 
> Sometimes Bucky pulls too many triggers and spills to much blood. Sam unwinds the death grip he holds on his control, take him apart in pieces, until he can breath again.

Most nights, he needed to be held, cradled like he was human, like he was flesh and bone. Most nights he needed to be held, warm and safe between their bodies. Their bed was his safe space, where he wasn't a weapon, or an asset, or a danger, just a man. One who'd been through hell, one who was scarred and broken. But so where they, in their own ways. They didn't judge him for what he needed.

Even when he needed to be taken apart, like tonight. Tonight he couldn't be held gently in their arms, couldn't be speak with laughter in his voice, couldn't be loved and petted and kissed gently or playfully. Tonight was too dark for that.

He sat on the edge of the bed, muscles seizing and shaking by turns. He felt raw, all exposed nerve endings and empty space. He'd pulled to many triggers, sliced to many throats to keep the darkness out, yet it hadn't been enough. People had still died. Sam had gotten knocked out of the sky, it was a miracle he was alive at all. Then they said that Steve had gotten hurt, on his own mission in London. He'd nearly lost both of them in the course of a day. He couldn't protect them. He wasn't good enough. He wasn't a shield, he was a weapon. He'd forgotten that.

The floor boards creaked and his head snapped up, so far it made his neck hurt. Sam stood in the shadow of the door frame, still in his fatigues, brows pulled together in way that spoke of concern. Bucky wrapped his arms arounds his torso, bent over his knees, and tried to breath.

Sam crossed into the room, his boots heavy on the carpet. A warm, familiar hand rested on the back of his neck.

“Tell me what you need, Buck,” he said gently.

That was Sam's way, he knew how to listen to people, how to take care of them, sometimes in ways they themselves didn't know they needed. He could read Bucky like a book, yet he always gave him the choice, the time and space to think about his wants and needs, to say his own piece. Sam might know what was best most times, but he never forced his opinion on any one either, never made Bucky feel broken or guilty in his confusion.

Bucky butted his head against Sam's chest.

He wanted a lot of things. He wanted Steve here with them, not half a world away, with a bullet in his back. He'd be fine, the widow assured them. Steve had had worse, by Bucky's own hand. But he'd been hurt and they weren't there. He wanted to kill the man who'd shot Steve. He wanted to wash the blood off his hands that he knew wasn't actually there, Hydra agents everyone but still human beings, ones he'd felt almost nothing about killing. He wanted to turn back the clock, kill the man who had escaped, who'd blown up an office building full of people rather than be caught. Bucky could still hear their screams inside his head. He hadn't been with Steve to protect him, and he hadn't been quick enough to save the people in that fire. He failed.

“I don't want to think anymore,” he breathed, clutching at Sam's hips hard enough to bruise.

He heard Sam sigh, a sad, defeated sort of sound. Sam was tired too, tired to his bones, and aching from his fall. Bucky hated to ask this of him, but he didn't know what else to do.

“Promise me, that you will tell me to stop if too much. Promise you'll talk to me,” he said gently, running his fingers through Bucky's tangled and rain damp hair. “Promise me, Bucky.”

Bucky bit the inside of his lip because for Sam promises are a currency, sold and real as gold. To take his trust, to break a promise like that, was a theft that would wound him to the soul. Making Sam into the instrument of his own self flagellation would hurt him and Bucky desperately did not want that.

He nodded, forehead resting against Sam's stomach.

“I promise,” he relented, hand sliding under Sam's shirt, just to feel his skin.

Sam leaned down, caught Bucky's chin, and jammed their mouth's together in a brutal kiss, biting Bucky's lip almost hard enough to draw blood. He whimpered, open to Sam's tongue as all the tension fled him. Sam was not a rough man by nature, but sometimes the only thing that would calm Bucky's mind, would scrapped out feeling in his chest, was to be so basely and through handled that he didn't have to think anymore. He trusted Sam with that, trusted Sam to yank the control from his bleeding fingers because he wanted to let go but couldn't remember how. Sam would draw out the poison with his hands, his mouth, his body, with a enough temperance to the pain/pleasure Bucky craved.

Sam slide to his knees, deft fingers working at the buckles and straps of Bucky's vest. The shirts went next, and Sam pulled away to unlace his own boots, letting Bucky do the same. He stepped out of his pants and boxers, and for a moment all Bucky could do was stare at the perfect body in the half light of the room. There were scars on Sam's dark skin, tight, powerful muscle coiled beneath and Bucky shivered, heart beating almost painfully under his ribs. His eyes followed the shadow trail of dark hair down his stomach, between the sharp v of his hips. He slid off the bed, the rest of his clothes forgotten, and reached for Sam as he went to his knees.

Sam went without prompting, resting his hand over the metal fingers on his hips. Bucky liked to do this, to take them on his knees. His hands were shaking more than they should be, even as they wrapped around Sam's cock, working it in the warm of his calloused palm. Sam swore, fingers tangling in the fine hair on the nape of Bucky's neck, as Bucky lapped the head of Sam's cock. He heaved a pleased sigh, tracing his tongue along the valley were hip met thigh, while he worked Sam rigid in his fist. Sam played with his hair, sometimes petting sometimes pulling, but his words were always gentle, murmured encouragements and praises that went straight to Bucky's groin. He took Sam in his mouth almost impatiently, grabbed his lover's thighs hard enough there would be finger shaped bruises in the morning, and swallowed him down. The fingers in his hair clenched, and he looked up at Sam through his lashes, pulled back and lathed the thick shaft with his tongue, before taking the whole thing again, each time a little more, until his nose touched Sam's pubic bone and the hand in his hair tugged painfully. Bucky shivered and stilled, Sam slowly fucked his mouth. Bucky let him, let the hand in his hair and on the back of his neck hold him still, closing his eyes and tasting the familiar salt of Sam on his tongue. He moaned, swallowed, moaned, working Sam with his throat, his tongue, hollowing his cheeks when his lover pulled back, until Sam pulled away entirely.

A spark of panic woke in Bucky's chest, afraid he done something wrong, and his fingers gripping Sam's hips to keep him from going. But gentle hand titled his head up again, brushed the hair back out of his eyes. There was a hint of a flush in Sam's cheeks and his chest rose and fell much quicker now, but he was smiling, looking at Bucky with concern and affection he didn't deserve.

“Hey, it's okay. I'm not going anywhere,” Bucky's fingers relaxed, suddenly aware that he was still clothed, his own erection almost painful in the confines of his pants, “On your feet.”

Bucky obeyed, without question, pressed himself flush to Sam's body, kissed him hard and brutal, whined against his mouth when Sam undid his belt, popped the button, pulled down the zipper, and pushed the fabric down his lover's hips. Sam cradled his jaw, kissed Bucky's neck with too much teeth, trailed his tongue across the curve of his mismatched collarbones. Sam's cock brushed his own, hot and hard, and Bucky made a chocked sound.

“Tie me up,” he breathed,reaching down to pick up Sam's belt, abondeoned on the floor when he put on his fatigues, “ please?”

Sam took the leather in his hands, eyeing Bucky carefully.

“You sure,” he replied, fingers warm on Bucky's skin as the brushed across his cheek bone. He leaned into the touch.

“Yes. Please.”

His knees hit the bed and he fell back, scrambling back into the pillows, and Sam followed, pushing him onto his back, crawling over him like a predator. Bucky sighed, craned his head back and bared his neck, arms dropping to his sides in an act of open submission. Sam took Bucky's arms, first one and them the other, kissed up his side from hip bone to shoulder, lifted the limbs above his head. He laced their fingers, kissed Bucky's mouth, slow and hungry, mapping the muscles of Bucky's forearms with his fingers.

“How you want to do this Bucky? On your back or on your belly?”

“Back. I want to see you.”

 

The belt buckle rattled when Sam picked it up, sending a shiver up Bucky's spine. It was nice belt made of fine leather, smooth but sturdy, as Sam secured Bucky's hands to the headboard.

“Too loose, too tight?” Sam asked kindly.

“No,” Bucky whined. The tightness of the leather on his skin, the resistance as he tugged, went straight south, “perfect. Touch me, please.”

“It's gonna be okay baby,” Sam whispered against Bucky's lips “we're gonna be okay.”

Sam pushed Bucky's thigh's wide and settled easily between them, sucked bruise into Bucky's neck, his chest, on the inside of one thigh, while he stroked Bucky's cock none too gently in his fist.

Bucky couldn't do gentle tonight, Sam knew his usual soft touches couldn't scratch this itch. Sam disappeared over the side of the bed for moment, came back with a familiar bottle of lube, nad settled back between Bucky's spread legs. He keened, loud and lewd, when Sam pushed two slick fingers inside him at once, too cold and too wide, the sort of sharp pain that melted into pleausre when his brain registered it. Bucky yanked against the belt in reply, back arching, head pressing into the pillows, trying to take everything deeper. The action seemed to light a fire in Sam's blood, and he nipped almost painfully at the just of Bucky's collarbone. Sam took pushed his hips back down on the bed, held them there mercilessly while he fucked Bucky open.

“Be still,” Sam murmured in his ear, nipping the cartilage, “ be still.”

Bucky sobbed Sam's name, fingers clenched into fist but unable to touch, cock hard to aching against his stomach. If Steve was here, he'd probably sucked Bucky off by now. He loved to do that, take Bucky in his mouth and wreck him, while Sam opened him up. But Steve was a million miles from here, Bucky was almost glad. It was hard enough to allow Sam to see the mess he was. Bucky choked back a wounded sound as Sam angled his fingers against his prostate, sending a jolt of lightening up his spine.

“Please,” Bucky keened, uncaring if the neighbors heard.

Sam sat back with that cat in cream smile, pushed a third finger into Bucky's ass, deep as he could. The body under him jolted, the precise pressure on his insides almost too much.

“I could get you off just like this, I bet,” Sam said, lapping his tongue across one of Bucky's nipples, pebbled in the cool air of the room, “With just my fingers. Bet I wouldn't even have to touch your cock.”

Bucky made a choked sound. Sam smiled at him again, spread his a little fingers pulling almost out, then pushing in again, hard.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart. Use your words.”

“F-fuck me,” Bucky choked, straining against the bonds until the leather bit pleasantly into his wrists, “Please, Sam.”

“Okay, Buck, okay,” He smiled, kissing Bucky's mouth, before he slid his fingers out of Bucky's body. He nearly sobbed at coolness of the air and the sudden emptiness.

Sam reached for the lube, slicking his own cock, standing erect between his thighs, fist slowly working the gel over himself as Bucky was unable to do anything but watch. A tongue darted out cross his dry lips, reminding himself that he had asked, in words, for this sort of divine torture.

After a moment, Sam took mercy on him, lifting his knees over the broad shoulders, the backs of his thighs, pressed against Sam's chest. A hand rested on his hip as Sam pressed into him. Bucky's back arched hard, tugging, again at the strap, the blunt pressure of Sam's cock pushing into him all at once too much and not enough. Sam leaned into him, kept pushing, because he knew it was what Bucky wanted, what he needed.

Sam was good at this, good at giving Bucky the roughness he needed, while some how being gentle. There was love in his voice when he spoke against Bucky's mouth, fully seated in Bucky's ass, bending his lover almost in half. All Bucky could do was pant and writhe, back bowing as he begged. His cock was painfully hard against his stomach and he strained against the belt again, desperate for some friction. Sam's movements were torturously slow, but hard and deep, angled just right to make Bucky nearly scream. Sam ran his calloused up Bucky's thighs, across his chest, craddled his ribs, hugged his hips, but never brushed Bucky's cock.

In the end though, Sam took mercy on him, reading the tensions in his muscles and the heaving of his breath, wrapping his fingers around Bucky's cock in a tight grip and commanding him to come. Bucky's eyes rolled up in his head then, back bowing so hard he feared he might snap and the tension left him in a rush. He came with a shattered, choked cry of Sam's name on his lips, spilling his release across Sam's hand and their bellies. Sam fucked him through it, thrusts hard and purposeful, chasing his own climax. Bucky dropped onto the sheets, boneless and drifting. Sam rutted against him for a moment longer, and in the haze, Bucky felt Sam go taut against him, groaning Bucky's name as he came, hips twitching helplessly.

Slowly, Sam's spine began to fold, tired and wrung out, but he reached up to until the belt first. His hands shook a little from the intensity of his own orgasm, but he made sure Bucky's arms were free and at his sides before he laid down beside him, gathered Bucky into his arms and pulled him against his chest.

“Better,” he asked sleepily.

Bucky nodded, tucking his face into Sam's shoulder and falling almost instantly in exhausted sleep. Tomorrow he would deal with the grief and the worry, tomorrow he would be better.

 


	9. b movie monsters-no pairing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: B-movie monster
> 
> Giant spider's running amuck in New York,and as usual, it's Tony's fault.

“I'm gonna murder Stark,” Bucky snarled, rounding the corner at a full sprint, “I'm gonna FUCKING murder him.”

“I _said_ I was sorry, didn't I?”, Tony responded.

Steve nodded in silent agreement. Tony was a decent enough guy, once Pepper had gotten ahold of him anyway, but he had this insatiable need to mess with things. Which lead to killer robots, or, as in their current predicament, giant spiders. Steve was pretty sure he'd seen a movie like this on the classic movie channel.

Given the spiders weren't the size of skyscrapers, more the size of large dogs, but the oved fast and pouched on their victims from above. That Parker kid hadn't been joking when he talked about how good of predators arachnids were.

“Hey Cap, watch your ten o'clock. You got a couple of eight legged freaks on the roof,” Sam called over the come, watching from the air. Steve had to commend him. Sam didn't really do spiders.

“How many more of these things are there?” Bucky snapped.

“There still six unaccounted for, according to the trackers,” he heard Natasha say, “Make that five. Thor just lit one up over on third.”

“I just bagged two more,” Clint responded, “We're done to three.”

“Two,” Tony called out, “Hulk did some smashing. Avoid Park if you can. It's a mess, spider guts everywhere.”

“And who's fault is that?”

“'Jeez comrade, you really hold a grudge.”

“Bucky watch out,” Steve shouted, catching the motion from the corner of his eye.

A massive, hairy body was descending down the side of a building towards them at break neck speed. It's fangs dripped, just like in the old films. Steve had always felt kind of bad about squishing spiders, not anymore. The creature leapt for them, Bucky ducked and rolled, gagging one of the beast's legs and flipping it on to it's back and smashing his metal fist into the spot where it's two body segements connected. It nearly exploded, spraying them both with a stinking, grey goo.

“One more,” Stark called, “I just toasted this guy.”

“Bucky got it,” Steve called, “All are accounted for. And Tony, no more live subjects. Ever.”

“It was an accident...”

“EVER,” Bucky shouted into his com before turning it off.

He cast Steve a bedraggled look, grey goo stuck in his hair.

“Sometimes, I hate the future. Where are the cities on the moon and the hover crafts for christ sake. Our generation was promised flying cars.”

Steve smiled.

“You know, Coulson's got on of those.”

Bucky shook his head.

“He would.”

 


End file.
